


She is Much More Precious Than Stones

by bumblebee_rose



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 15:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebee_rose/pseuds/bumblebee_rose
Summary: Most of all he can see her eyes every damn time he looks at those earrings.When he holds them up to the light and they turn to mint he sees her outside on the balcony. Splitting shortcake with him because she didn’t want her own, but she just wantsone biteof his. He lets her eat the whole thing every time, wiping cream from the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb, as she smooths the tablecloth between her fingers.OrScott buys Tessa a pair of earrings for her 26th birthday





	She is Much More Precious Than Stones

He bought her a pair of emerald earrings for her 26th birthday, picked them out carefully from the jewelry store she said she liked.

It was a small shop that kissed the corner of the street that led to the rink; glass windows and gold detailing along everything. Countless pieces of polished metal sat delicately atop black velvet cushions, and bright lights shone from the ceiling, bouncing off the surface of the gems.

He wandered through the maze of the shop, stepping softly on the cool tile as if one wrong movement could shatter every piece of glass inside. He didn’t dare to touch anything either, didn’t want to leave fingerprints on any surface that could parallel the red spot on Jupiter. 

_Maybe that’s how it came to be?_ he thought, The galaxy is _very_ delicate after all. Uranus already spins on its side and Venus spins in a completely different direction. 

He would set them right it he could. Fix them with his best therapy words, _I feel, as if it would be more productive and beneficial to spin in the same direction. Would you agree? I am glad we can come to a conclusion we can both settle on._

He wouldn’t be able to, though she could probably control it all if she tried. Build a throne of light and wear a crown of the finest stars atop her head.

But what could he possibly buy for her? It was like trying to appease a dragon with new treasures, what could be more valuable than the ruby vanity they had acquired on the coast of France, and kept guarded for years?

He could buy her a ring. Grace her fingers with bands like Saturn, and keep himself curved protectively around her. 

He shouldn’t. 

He doesn’t think he deserves to give her any sort of ring just yet. 

He could get her a necklace. Drape delicate gold across her collarbones like the asteroid belt lays lazily in the balance of the solar system. 

He doesn’t think he would be able to help her put it on if she asked though. His fingers aren’t nimble and calm like hers are. His hands would shake too much and the clasps would be much too small for him to open. Necklaces get tangled too easily as well, he would hate for her jewellery box to end up looking like the Milky Way because of him.

He stumbles across a pair of emerald earrings set in what he assumes is silver and the first thing he can think of is the way they would match her eyes like they were made for each other. Two jokers in a deck. Wildcards.

They’re perfect, and he almost can’t believe it. 

He walks to one of the ladies by the counter, an older woman with gold rimmed glasses that glint in the light and dark cranberry lipstick that stains the white mug she clutches in her hands. 

He points them out to her, and watches as she carefully unlocks the cabinet with a silver key and pulls out the board of velvet. 

_“The white gold is just perfect, yet they’re quite pricy for emerald, the design is extremely unique.”_ She says to him.

_“Cost isn’t an issue.”_ He says back, absently waving a hand, and for a second he feels embarrassed because he isn’t one to flaunt his wealth like it’s fresh crop, but then again, he doesn’t think all that much when it comes to her. 

_“She must be quite special.”_ The woman says, glancing up at him from under her glasses, and all he can think is, _you have no idea lady._

How do you classify the person you have grown up beside. The person who has shaped who you have become. The person who forces you to be better every single day.

How do you properly explain how you see her in _everything_. 

He notices her in the hardcover books his mother leaves at his apartment, and the white lacy flowers that grow along the path he runs in the morning. 

He hears her in the prayers at church, and the soft music that plays from the apartment below his, always classical and mid century-never country.

He tastes her in the strawberry tarts that are sold in the bakery by the skate shop, can smell her from a mile away. 

Most of all he can see her eyes every damn time he looks at those earrings. 

When he holds them up to the light and they turn to mint he sees her outside on the balcony. Splitting shortcake with him because she didn’t want her own, but she just wants _one bite_ of his. He lets her eat the whole thing every time, wiping cream from the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb, as she smooths the tablecloth between her fingers.

When he covers them with his hands and shrouds them in shadow, he sees her on the ice. Eyes dark like underwater jade as she presses her forehead against his, pupils dilating until only the smallest ring of green is left and it rivals forests of pine for its strength. 

Sometimes they’re soft like dewey moss and other times they’re hard like rock candy, daring him to try to break her. 

_Yes,_ these are perfect, and he feels as if he’s accomplished something big.

He leaves the store clutching a small, yet sturdy white bag and crumbling the receipt into his pocket. He’s confident, others who knew her less would say a bit _too_ confident, but he has learned from her everyday of his life, and he’s sure he’s made the right choice.

Regardless, he still feels somewhat torn on the subject. They don’t buy each other gifts, don’t make a habit of it, yet he’s spent quite a bit on her, time and money. 

_It’s different,_ he tells himself, shoving his hands into his pockets only to find one of her hair ties. 

He pulls the dark brown elastic out of his pocket and frowns at it. 

It’s like she’s taken up residence in his pockets lately. She slots her frigid hands into his coat pockets when she forgets her gloves and the rink is too cold, and stores small tins of lip balm and credit cards into the back pocket of his jeans. One time, she tucked a tampon into the pocket of his tweed coat and he yelped when he found it halfway through dinner.

He doesn’t know how she ends up all over him either. Her lipstick finds its way onto his cheeks and temples and her blue ink pen gets smudged all over his hands. The yellow of her dress gets stuck in his mind and the curve of her waist fits in the dip of his mattress just perfectly. 

They work in careful symbiosis like that, living in perfect harmony. 

He’s organized a night out for her birthday, just dinner and a walk through town since Montreal’s always beautiful at night. lights line the perimeter of the streets and hang on wiring like fairies, lazily draped across storefronts and between lampposts. 

She didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, told him on their fifth lap of the rink with her fingers in the spaces between his. Jordan and her mom were making a trip the weekend after, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of a public celebration.

He asked if his company would be permitted, and she tucked her hand into his sweater pocket. _“of course.”_ She said, with a smile like melting butter. 

He does possibly the best self grooming he ever has that night. Combs his hair and styles it neatly, _not too much gel,_ he remembers her saying to him. It was finally that length she liked again, just enough so she could tug the hair at the base of his neck and twirl it between her fingers, _as if he hadn’t noticed_.

He stands in front of a small closet of dress shirts all speckled in different colours and patterns, ties draped across a bar on the wall. She organized it herself, showed him what matched and what didn’t, left her thoughts all through his closet. Again. 

He chooses one the colour of dark garden moss in the end, because he likes the way shadows seem to darken in the fabric, _not_ because it matches the earrings he got her.

When he arrives at her apartment he’s a little bit in wonder. She’s clad in a black dress that stops just above her knees, wrapped around her chest like thick elastic and draped across her shoulders. He reminds her of one of those marbles statues, all smooth lines and graceful curves. 

They walk because it isn’t far and he has a feeling they look awfully good on each others arms. 

On the way, she points out _everything_. He doesn’t understand it, but she notices the smallest shifts in the galaxy, the fact that the flower pots in front of the art supplies store have changed, and that the market put out a new sign lined in birch wood.

However, she _doesn’t_ notice the small bag he has hanging in his left hand, or at least pretends not to notice it for his sake. 

He can smell the strawberry of her hair every time she turns her head to the side to look at a street vendor or building. It’s making him stupid and drunk, lulling him into a dreamworld of _her_ , where her skin glows softly in the moonlight and light flickers off her hair, turning it to dark honey. It takes a few minutes before he realizes he’s not dreaming, that she’s actually tangled in his arm, heels clacking on stone as they walk though the night together. He’s giddy and intoxicated the whole walk.

He spends the entire dinner in frays. The small white bag that sits against his thigh feels like it’s burning a hole through his dress pants and he can’t stop fiddling with his napkin. He knows she suspects something is wrong with him but he brushes her off and she wrinkles her nose at him before returning to their conversation. 

The vinegar from his salad still makes his lips burn and from careful deduction he can tell it’s not the vinegar that’s making his knee bounce or his fingers tap nervously on the table. 

Should he give it to her now? During dessert? After dessert? On the walk home? There are too many forks in the road here, too many choices he isn’t equipped to make. 

He orders a slice of vanilla cake and she says she only wants a _bite_ of his, so he orders her her own piece of chocolate cake with creme brûlée sauce because he knows she’s been eyeing it since they brought out the desert menu. It’s second nature to him, a small thing he would do for her but she looks across the table at him with a 300 kilowatt smile and he can’t help pulling out the bag then.

_“I bought you this,”_ He says, rambling on, _“It’s ok if you don’t like it, I understand.”,_ and suddenly he thinks he should have kept the receipt.

She chides him, saying that she would love anything he got her, not that he _should_ have got her anything, as she continues to smile like he’s painted her a ceiling like Michelangelo did for God.

He’s barely holding it together as she carefully unties the silk bow at the top of the bag and pulls out the tissue paper. 

When she opens the small box her face immediately changes _“oh.”_ she breathes, putting a hand over her heart and he _knew_ he should have kept that receipt because she’s so particular in every way, and he shouldn’t have expected that she would like it. 

She grazes her fingers over the surface of the jewellery and looks up at him with a look on her face he’s never seen before. _“Scott”_ she breathes and he can’t quite handle the way she says his name just then like it’s a prayer.

_”White gold......these must have cost you a fortune.”_ She says, speaking carefully as if the volume of her voice might tarnish the metal, might shatter the glasses on the table. 

All he can think to do is shrug his shoulders because his entire mind has gone blank since she grabbed his hand.

She doesn’t cry delicate tears or weep into her napkin because she’s not _like_ that. She doesn’t show emotions the same way he does, present them on a silver platter like delicacies that should be admired. Instead she bites her bottom lip to keep herself from smiling too much and shakes her head at him. That’s how he knows she likes them, that’s how he knows she adores him for that moment in time. 

She puts them on right there at the table, makes him hold up her phone on camera mode so that she can see where to poke the metal and secure the backing on with shaking hands, and he decides he must be amongst angels. 

She won’t stop telling him how much she loves them, and how he shouldn’t be spending that much on her, and how grateful she is to have him, and his hands keep trying to float off the surface of the table so insistently that it takes all his willpower to keep them down.

Every time she tucks her hair behind her ears the emeralds make an appearance and he can’t stop staring at her. They match her eyes perfectly, shift in the light like hers do, and darken in the shadows like he knew they would. The candlelight only illuminates them further, causing the edges of the gem to catch shards of light and glint like twinkling stars. 

He feels, not proud- but like he belongs to her. Like she carries a piece of him just like he carries so many pieces of her. Every time he sees the jewelry he sees them, them, them. 

They walk back, arms linked and he keeps getting her eyes and the jewelry mixed up. They both sparkle in the same way, catch the light like twins, and glisten like newborn stars. He keeps tucking her hair behind her ears, admiring her from every angle, presenting her like fine wine. The alcohol they had at dinner begins to make his eyelids heavy and her perfume is starting to convince him to curve his arm around her waist instead. 

She makes a passerby take their picture, because _“they’re matching!”_ and he can’t help but give himself a mental high five. She irons out his dark forest shirt with her hands before a standing close enough that her hair tickles his cheek. Placing her hand on his chest, she tilts her head into him just so and bumps his knee with hers prior to positioning her feet properly. Their mystery photographer compliments them both, _“What a lovely couple you two are.”_ She says, as she hands back the phone. They’ve heard it a million times, have never been blind to speculation. They’re not a _couple_ , no, but neither of them bother to correct her.

Music plays on one of the streets and he twirls her around on the tips of his fingers before catching her lower back with his hand and moving to press a kiss to her cheek, yet it lands instead in the corner of her mouth, where her lips meet skin.

She made them watch Peter Pan once together and he remembers Wendy’s mom saying that’s where the Kiss was hidden. Tucked away like a secret yet on display for only one. Your true kiss can only _belong_ to one after all. 

She touches the spot after carefully as if her skin could shatter like porcelain and for a second he feels as if he’s overstepped boundaries, until she drops her hand and smiles at the ground, barely keeping her lips together, until they break and she lets out the smallest laugh. 

They’re an impressionist painting under that yellow-gold glow of the streetlights, strokes of colour working together to make the simple picture of _them_.

A block from her apartment and she’s wandered from his side to gaze at one of the storefronts, he leans against a brick wall on the other side of the street and fiddles with the neck of his tie, trying to loosen it a bit before they continue walking. 

It happens quicker than he could snap his fingers.

A figure grabs her arm pulling her off balance, and nearly sending her topping over, causing her to drop her clutch. The shadow scoops it up and takes off down the street before he even has the chance to react to what has happened. 

He rushes to her side as soon as he stops his head from floating, eyeing the finger marks left on her upper arm and he’s furious. He has half a mind to take off after the guy but she pulls him back to her with her heavy breathing and shaking hands. 

He apologizes over and over again _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ but she reassures him she’s fine every time, that she didn’t have much in her purse except some money and a lip gloss, that she isn’t hurt, that she’s okay. 

He walks her all the way back to her apartment holding her close to his side and daring anyone to come near her. For the first time he feels like the Lions he sees in the nature reserves prowling around their prides, bared teeth and sharp claws. He could take down almost anything with sheer force of will if he tried.

A bit reluctantly, he says goodbye to her at her door after she reassures him for the twentieth time that she’s okay, he grazes a thumb across her cheekbone and insists that she call him if need be. He can’t see her left earring but he assumes it’s just her hair covering it. Sometimes it worked in opposition, pulling in the light and contrasting the pale milk of her skin.

When he returns to his apartment he crashes on the couch immediately, loosening his tie and rubbing his eyes. He doesn’t know what he would have done if she got hurt on his watch. 

He’s not home for 10 minutes when he hears insistent knocking at his door and opens it as if he’s in a daze. 

She’s standing in his doorway looking smaller than ever and he can see black smudges all around her eyes. 

_Tess?_ He says, voice shaking, and he can feel the worry seeping from his skin. 

_“I’m sorry.”_ is the first thing she chokes out and he can see her trying not to cry which tells him something is seriously wrong. 

_“I think it may have happened when he- when he grabbed me-“_ she forces herself to say and he tries to hold her around the elbows but she pulls away just slightly. _“the backing must have come off, I’m not sure, but the earring is missing and I know how much you spent on it and I’m just really sorry, I am.”_ she finishes as sobs escape her throat and she wraps her arms around her center like she’s been stabbed.

She’s stumbling over words like she’s been tripped, falling down the stairs and he’s just watching her tumble. 

He wordlessly pulls her into him and at first she tries to resist but she melts into him not a second later. He can feel her chest shaking and he knows his shirt will be tear stained when she pulls away but he’s not worried about anything other than how he can make her stop hurting. 

How she can believe he would be that upset to provoke tears is beyond him, its not her fault the earring backing was a bit loose, and it’s certainly not her fault she got attacked on the street. 

He rubs small circles into her back, burying his nose into her hair until he feels her start to relax and the shaking of her chest begins to cease.

If he’s honest he’s a little bit torn by the news. He can’t be mad at her, it isn’t her fault in any way that could be explained, but he loved seeing himself in her. 

He loved the sight of her, clad in gems of his choosing, sparkling by his hand, dressed by his eyes. He’s going to miss that small earthy tether he had to her.

It takes him seconds after that to realize he’s not actually upset at all, because In a way he hasn’t really lost that connection to her. It’s the way she sometimes chooses vanilla over chocolate ice cream or hammers on his door on game night with a leafs jersey on and her hair in a knot atop her head. 

Folie a deux he thinks to himself, a madness shared by two, and if they’re both mad then they must be the same kind of crazy to choose each other again and again, over and over like they never fail to do.

_“Darling,”_ He drawls, in the soft glow coming from his apartment, pulling back to look at her as he grazes both his thumbs across her cheekbones. Her makeup is smudged and her eyes are wet, glowing soft green as she looks up at him. Drops of water rest on her lashes, and they look like diamonds to him, sparking in the dull light of the hallway. 

Folie a deux because they share this madness for each other like it’s their last meal. 

They belong to this madness. 

Looking directly into her he spills his heart, tips over his tray of delicacies. 

 

_“You are much more precious to me than stones.”_


End file.
